


The Changes

by seeminglyincurablesentimentality (myinnerchildisbored)



Series: Rose Shelby vs. All the Bastards [14]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 13:21:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19296598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myinnerchildisbored/pseuds/seeminglyincurablesentimentality
Summary: The aftermath of the horse incident is taking Rose by surprise and making her a bit miserable. Thankfully, a whole heap of Shelbys is on hand to help in one way or another...with varying levels of success.





	The Changes

**Author's Note:**

> This bit is set about a year after Sharon's wedding, so Rose has just turned 16.

Rose was just sitting down to a plate of bacon and mushrooms – something that never failed to put her in a good mood – when a wave of hellfire came out of nowhere and wrapped itself around her. She very nearly didn’t get her chair pulled out in time before her legs just melted under her, bones rendered useless by the sheer heat of it all.

Dripping with sweat - the most disgusting sweat, nothing like the kind you worked up doing something hard on a hot day – she crumpled on the seat and just managed to put her plate onto the table. Her father strode into the room, already dressed to go.

“Orright, Rosie?”

She burst into tears.

It horrified her, but there was no stopping it.

Truth be told, Rose had been feeling weepy, on and off, for weeks. Ridiculous things brought her to tears these days; a dead dog by the side of the road, books – she’d bawled her eyes out at the end of _Frankenstein_ \- , listening to music was impossible, and when Rose discovered a nest of newborn, still blind kittens in the furthest corner of the stable…Christ almighty, she could have drowned the little fuckers in her tears.

No one had seen though, thankfully, least of all her father.

“What’s wrong?”

He was beside her now, his briefcase next to her breakfast.

“Nothing,” Rose sobbed unconvincingly, her boiling face in her hands.

“Do we need a doctor?”

“No!”

“Is it your cut?” Tommy sounded properly flustered and she couldn’t blame him. This – weeping hysterically at the breakfast table – was highly irregular behaviour. “Are you hurting?”

“I’m not…”

“What’s wrong then?” her father demanded.

Rose took her hands from her face and glared at him. Her face felt hot enough to fry an egg on and she was sure she looked fucking frightful, bright red and plastered with sweaty hair.

“I don’t bloody know.”

Her father pulled out a chair, sat down and pushed her cup towards her.

“Drink,” he ordered.

“Tea is not going to fix it,” she said; but she obeyed anyway, she was parched as anything.

Tommy put the back of his hand on her forehead and frowned.

“You’ve a fever.”

“I don’t,” Rose said, pleased that the tears were subsiding now.

“You’re burning up, Rosie,” he insisted.

“It’ll pass in a minute.”

She reached for the tea pot and refilled her cup.

“How d’you know that?”

Rose sighed.

“It happens all the time,” she said. “Not _all_ the time…but a lot. It happens a lot.”

Her father looked at her, his face perfectly still.

“You’re orright then?”

“No, I’m not fucking alright,” Rose snapped. “Look at me. I’m getting boiled from the inside out, it’s like my joints are rusting or something, I can’t sleep and here…” she stuck her hand into her hair and pulled out a fistful of hair “…I’ll be bald in a month and…” the tears returned with a vengeance now “…and I can’t stop bloody bawling…I…”

She saw the briefest flash of something other than complete calm pass through her father’s eyes; worry perhaps or maybe even panic. It was gone as quick as it’d appeared though and he was pushing his chair back and reaching for his briefcase.

“Come on.”

She looked up at him, suddenly exhausted enough to sleep a week.

“We’re going to Pol’s,” Tommy announced.

“I’ve school,” she pointed out.

“Fuck school.”

The smallest grin cracked across Rose’s tired face at this; she could tell her father was pleased with himself, quietly celebrating his very small success.

“Don’t let the constituency hear you talk like that,” Rose said drily.

“Good girl, Rosie,” he said. “Come on now, eh? Polly’ll sort you out.”

“I’m not eating some fuckin’-“

“If Pol serves you up the raw innards of a donkey, you’ll eat it if she tells you it’s what you need,” her father interrupted.

“You’re disgusting,” Rose groaned.

“Enough wingeing, my little love. Up you get, let’s go.”

#

As it turned out _they_ weren’t going to Pol’s – _Rose_ was. Tommy pulled up at Polly’s front gate and reached across to open Rose’s door for her.

“Tell her what you told me,” he instructed. “She’ll know what to do.”

“Are you not comin’ in?”

“I’ve work to do.” Her father avoided looking at her, busying himself with a lighter and cigarette instead. “And this is women’s business at any rate.”

“Is it?” Rose frowned at him, still making no move to get out of the car.

“It is.” He got his cigarette lit and nodded towards the door. “Go on. The sooner you’re in there, the sooner it’ll be dealt with, eh?”

“Easy for you to say,” Rose grumbled.

She reached out and took the cigarette from between his fingers and hopped out of the car before he could snatch it back. Her father didn’t even attempt to retrieve his smoke and somehow this made Rose feel very worried.

He honked the horn and when he drove off, there was a distinct feel of fleeing about it. Her father was running off, not wishing to deal with whatever they were dealing with here. Rose leaned against the small wall by the garden gate and smoked her cigarette slowly. When there was nothing left off it, unless you wanted to scorch your lips and fingers, she flicked it into the street, took a deep breath and dragged herself up the garden path.

#

Polly listened to Rose’s list of ailments and said nothing. Instead, she brewed a fresh pot of tea, produced a plate of enormous biscuits, lit herself a cigarette and settled next to Rose on the sofa, pouring a generous measure of whiskey into her own teacup.

“Am I ill?” Rose asked.

“Not as such, sweetheart,” Polly said with a smile.

It was meant to be reassuring, Rose knew, but it terrified her. Had she been well, Pol would have clicked her tongue and told her off for being a wuss, advising her to grow a tougher skin, to stop making mountains out of mole hills, to pull herself together and shoulder her lot without complaint like everyone else.

“What’s that mean?”

Polly drained her cup, not bothering with tea after all, and reached over to take Rose’s hand.

“You’re going through the changes, Rosie,” she said gently.

“What bloody changes?” Rose pulled her hand away and crossed her arms.

“You know how you’re not having your monthlies anymore?”

“Yea, I’m aware, thank you,” Rose huffed. “How’s it to do with this? I’ve not had them for ages, why should it be a problem now?”

After Sharon Lee’s – pardon, Sharon Wood, she was now and it was still hard for Rose to think of her as anything other than Sharon Lee – wedding, after the business with the horse and the baby bits, the monthlies had stopped, for obvious reasons.

It had, in fact, been something of a perk, as far as Rose was concerned.

Anyway, it had been nearly a year since, Sharon herself was ready to drop the first new Wood any day now, good luck to her. It seemed stupid to blame water under the bridge for this brand-new nonsense.

“Don’t be a snarky little bitch,” Polly said and Rose nearly jumped up and hugged her. If Pol cracked the shits it had to be good news.

She’d never be able to get mad if Rose was on death’s door.

“Listen, orright?”

“Yes, Pol.”

“It takes a while for your body to realise that your visitor’s stopped coming, so to speak,” Pol went on, lighting a new cigarette. “Takes about a year, so your timing’s spot on, really. Once your body’s sure that particular business is done with, it makes some changes and that’s not very pleasant.”

“How d’we stop it?”

“We don’t.” Polly gave Rose a smile, a sad one, but a real one at last. “You’ve got to bear it, best as you can. It’s not going to last forever.”

“How long does it last?” Rose asked.

“A year…maybe two.”

“ _What?_ ” Rose stared at Polly open-mouthed.

“It is what it is, sweetheart.”

“Good fuck…” Rose fell back into the sofa cushions and ran her hands through her hair. “I can’t feel like this for two years, Pol, I’ll go mad.”

“You might get lucky, Rosie,” Polly said. “Some women breeze through it, no bother at all. You’ve to wait and see.”

“Did you breeze through it?”

Pol shrugged.

“It’s not as bad as it used to be at any rate…and it’s only been going on for six months or so.”

Rose cocked her head, reasonably certain she’d misunderstood.

“We’ll make a race of it, eh, sweetheart?”

Rose was too stunned to come up with anything. For the longest time the two of them sat on Polly’s sofa, looking at the tray of biscuits that was certain to remain untouched.

“Can I have one of those?” Rose asked, nodding towards Pol’s cigarettes.

“Help yourself.”

They smoked silently.

“So,” Rose said finally, “this is old women's business then.”

“Who’s to say what’s old?”

“I am,” Rose took another cigarette, “I’m to bloody say. You’ve only just started and you’re ancient.”

“Am I now?”

“Comparatively.”

“That’s a big word for a little girl,” Pol said, offering Rose a light.

“No little girls here,” Rose said darkly. “Only a pair of old crones.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“This is fucked.”

“It is what it is, Rosie.”

Rose was glaring daggers but Polly’d never been one to look away first.

“What’s that even mean?” Rose wasn’t shouting, not really. “Everything is what it is, Pol, that doesn’t mean it’s not fucked.”

“Angry, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Rose spat. “Just fine.”

“ _Zalzaro khal peski piri_ ,” Pol said calmly. “It’s true, you know. You’ll do yourself no favours acting the hard woman now. If you feel like havin’ a cry-“

“That’ll help, won’t it?” Rose herself was a bit surprised at the venom in her voice. “That’ll just solve everything. You do it yourself, all the time, sure enough?”

“You mind your tone.”

“Fuck off.” Rose stood and glared down at her aunt. “You knew this was going to happen to me, why didn’t you warn me?”

“And what good would that have done?” Pol asked cooly.

“I could’ve prepared.”

“How?” Polly was doing a good job staring her down now and it was making Rose’s skin crawl with fury.

“I don’t know, do I?” She wanted to pick up the plate of biscuits and hurl it through the closed window. “I’ve had no time to think about it, have I?  That’s the whole point of _preparing_ , isn’t it, that you’ve time in advance to think about-“

“We did you a fucking favour, Rose,” Polly interrupted. “If we’d told you this was coming, you’d have driven yourself round the bend thinking about it and trying to work out what to do and, in the end, it would have been wasted time and tears.”

“How d’you know?”

“I just know, chavi.” Pol’s tone was softening, at least a bit. “The only thing to do now is to live through it. To find places to put the rage and the tears to good use when they rear their heads.”

Rose fell back onto the sofa, suddenly deflated by the hopelessness of it all.

“Where d’you put yours?” she asked after a while.

Pol grinned.

“Nowhere you’ve any business poking your nose in,” she said. “You find your own ways, thank you very much.”

#

At the very back of the stable at the big house, in a huge disused box, someone had hung a punching bag. It’d been hanging there for an age, since they moved in, Rose was sure, but she’d never actually seen anyone use it. It wasn’t her father’s – at least she didn’t think it was, he’d never been all that fond of the boxing – so it’d probably been one of the lads.

It didn’t matter.

The important thing was that Rose could unleash her fury upon the thing to her hearts content.

It was a heavy bastard, it bruised her knuckles and jarred her wrists and never even moved when she hit it, but the pain was strangely welcome. The heatwaves were not as noticeable when you were already dripping with sweat and if your heart was already racing it couldn’t get all that much faster after a point.

And, seeing as no one was around the watch her, Rose could act like an absolute eejit – cursing the bag, spitting at it, kicking it, ramming it with her head – without fear of looking stupid.

“What the fuck’s this in aid of?”

Rose whirled around, her whole body buzzing with heat and frantic motion. Her uncle Arthur stood in the box’s entrance, frowning.

“I-“ There was hair in her face, plastered to it, it was in her eyes and in her mouth.

Arthur was shaking his head, slowly, every bit of him exuding disapproval. He strode over and put his hand on the punching bag for a moment, pushing it a little. As he looked around the box, Rose could only imagine how pathetic the whole thing would seem to him – how pathetic she herself would seem – and it made her cringe to the point of physical pain.

“Sit down.” Arthur nodded towards a bale in the corner.

“Why?” Rose asked suspiciously.

“ ‘cause your _kokko_ bloody says.”

Rose dragged her feet to the corner and sat.

Arthur walked over to the other corner and picked up a bucket of long forgotten rags, brought it over and sat next to Rose. She watched him pick one of the rags out and tear a strip off it. He held it out to her.

“What’s this for?” she asked.

“Your hair,” her uncle said. “Get it out of the way, eh?”

Rose scraped her hair together and tied it up and away as best as she could. Arthur was ripping into another rag now, reducing it to ribbons.

“Hands out,” he said gruffly.

Rose held out her scraped and bruised hands hesitantly and her uncle proceeded to wrap them with the torn rags; quite tightly, but it felt by no means unpleasant.

“Right,” Arthur said when he was done. “That’ll do. Up you get – show me how you stand.”

Rose cocked her head.

“Speaking fuckin’ Chinese, am I?”

“No…” Rose got to her feet and, feeling supremely daft, stood.

“Christ almighty,” Arthur sighed. “Legs apart, bend your knees…ah, fuck, Rosie, not like that…here…”

He got up and shook his shoulders.

“You’re a rightie, aren’t you, Rosie?” he asked.

“Yea…”

“Orright then,” Arthur stamped his left foot for emphasis, “left foot front, right foot back. Heels up…not on your fuckin’ tippy toes, you bloody ballerina!”

“Sorry,” Rose said, watching him intently, trying her best to replicate his stance.

“You’re orright,” her uncle said magnanimously. “Now. Make a fist for me.”

Rose made a fist.

“That’s just ridiculous,” Arthur scoffed.

“It’s a fist,” Rose said incredulous. “How can that be wrong?”

“It’s not, if you’re up for shattering all your tiny little fingerbones.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve no clue, do you, Rosie?” Her uncle looked at her with genuine pity. “It’s a wonder you’ve not damaged yourself hitting that thing.”

Rose looked down at her imperfectly positioned feet and sighed.

“I’ve my work cut out for me, eh?”

Her head snapped up and she found Arthur looking back at her with a lopsided grin.

“You’ll teach me?” she asked. “No fuckin’ about?”

“I’ll not fuck about if you don’t either.”

“I won’t,” Rose said immediately.

“Right then,” Arthur nodded. “On one condition.”

“What?”

“You stay away from that bag til we’ve got you some proper gloves,” he said. “Bareknuckle’s fuckin’ murder.”

“You used to-“

“Yea, I know” Arthur cut her off, “but it’s not…ladylike. Fair enough?”

“I’m not a lady, uncle Arthur,” Rose grinned.

“Point taken,” he said. “You’re a pain in the arse. Now, d’you know how to do a fuckin’ push up?”

“Yea?”

“Show me.” He stood over Rose as she performed the finest push up of her life. “Not bad. Now do fifteen more.”

“Why?”

“For fuckin’ arguing with me.” Even though Rose couldn’t see her uncle’s face, she could hear him still grinning. “No gloves, no bag, right?”

“Right,” Rose said and, grinning like mad at the filthy floor, got down to business.   


  


**Author's Note:**

> Zalzaro khal peski piri - Acid will corrode its own container


End file.
